Making an Effort
by Juggling Goth
Summary: Set immediately after the events of the book. No longer being required to participate in the end of the world, final battle, etc., Aziraphale and Crowley go back to Crowley's place to get thoroughly drunk. Slash ensues. Drunkenly.


Disclaimer: I do not own the characters Aziraphale and Crowley, or the plot, universe or rules of Good Omens. That distinction goes to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. I'm just a long-time fan making up stories in my head, and no copyright infringement is intended. Anyone offended by slashfic, or who thinks that it breaks their view of their favourite characters, should read no further.

Dedication: My first fic, and it's for VimesLady. Best wishes and take care.

* * *

_Heaven is not in England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort._ - Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, _Good Omens_ (London: Corgi, 1991), p. 160.

Aziraphale was not entirely sure how he had ended up in this position.

Not that (he blushed) there was anything _wrong_ with this position, as such. A voice of sobriety was suggesting that others might disagree, but for the time being he would ignore it. After all, hadn't Crowley said, all those years ago and slightly nastily, that it probably wasn't actually possible for him to do evil? And while the same conversation had contained his view that Crowley couldn't actually do good, they had known each other for 6,000 years now, and Aziraphale flattered himself that he might have had a benign influence. And Crowley _had_ faced down the Adversary. (Aziraphale was deliberately ignoring the fact that he himself had had an argument with the Metatron.) So that was alright. Probably. Anyway, there was always ineffability.

Which philosophical ponderings served to distract him from the fact that Crowley was crouched over him on the sofa, and Crowley's hand was gripping his shoulder, and Crowley's fingers were combing oh-so-slowly through his hair, and Crowley's fingernails were scratching his scalp _just_ hard enough, and Crowley's teeth were nipping at the sensitive skin just under his jaw, and that was _more_ than alright.

Giddy with relief following the aversion of Armageddon, and more to the point the aversion of uncomfortable conversations Upstairs and Downstairs, Aziraphale had accepted Crowley's offer to go back to his flat for a bottle of wine or several. The plants had visibly relaxed once Crowley became too pissed to carry out his threat to "sort you lot out, right, now that I don't have to worry about Agma... Arga... end thingy, y'know." Midway through a diatribe about the fourteenth century –

-"'S all plagues. 'N' feudalism. 'N' peasants."  
"Not peasants! Other one. Gets shot by irasti... astiro... rich people. Pheasants."  
"Nah, 's peasants. 'M sure 'Nyway. Where was I?" –

- Crowley had got up extremely carefully to refill his glass, tripped over an entirely imaginary object, and landed in Aziraphale's lap.

"Whoops! 'Lo! Hahahahahahahaha."

Crowley had refused to move, claiming to be just too comfortable where he was. Both had considered the possibility of sobering up, before making the entirely reasonable decision that they might be too sober to cope with this, and that anyway, the world owed them one. Which was why Aziraphale was not particularly startled - or if he was, couldn't be bothered to do anything about it - when Crowley had suddenly grabbed him around the waist in a bear hug, although he yelped with surprise when Crowley dived down and planted a slobbery kiss on his ribcage, through his shirt.

"Soggy!" Aziraphale had complained, reflexively sobering up. Not all the way: he was still of the opinion that the world owed him a drunken night, and he was damned - if he'd pardon the pun - if he was going to start again. Just to the point of being pleasantly merry.  
"'S'ry".  
"Sober up a bit, my dear - you're making a terrible mess of my shirt."

Crowley, with a muttered complaint that sounded a lot like "you're no fun", had shaken his head blearily until he was merely tipsy. And then, having regained co-ordination but not any inhibitions or fear of regretting it in the morning, pushed Aziraphale sideways into a sprawl and hopped onto the sofa himself, with a slightly predatory grin. Aziraphale had fallen over with a giggle, which became an exclamation of "Really!" as Crowley crouched over him and pinned him shoulder to the sofa with one hand, and then became a "mmmmph!" as Crowley leaned down and kissed him.

Well. If Aziraphale had known it was going to be _that_ enjoyable, he might have got around to trying it in the past 6,000 years. This was definitely one of our lot's inventions, he thought, as Crowley held him down, the other hand combing through his hair, and began to trace a line of kisses down his jawline to his throat, catching the skin between his teeth as he went.

And now Crowley was sitting up over his hips looking far too pleased with himself, and pulling Aziraphale's shirt open, gently, knowing the angel's dissatisfaction with miraculous repairs. He raked a claw - fingernail, _fingernail_ - down one side of Aziraphale's chest, relaxing his hand into lazy circles and spirals on the angel's abdomen, at the same time as he leaned forward to bite Aziraphale's other nipple - _hard_ - eliciting a gasp, a twitch, a spasmodic clutch at his back.

He sat up and stared straight down into Aziraphale's eyes, raising one eyebrow. Partly it amused him to play this role; partly, he really was asking permission, giving Aziraphale a chance to back out, blame the wine, and not mention it in the morning. He must be going soft. (Although, honestly, he thought, soft was _not_ an appropriate adjective at that particular moment.) Aziraphale briefly considered sobering up, blinked, swallowed, nodded, placed a hand reassuringly on Crowley's wiry thigh, stared straight back, and dug his fingertips in. Crowley smiled –

- held his gaze, slo-o-owly dipped his head to Aziraphale's nipple, sucked, licked, kissed, bit more gently. Scratched, stroked, massaged, threatened to tickle, pinched. Held Aziraphale down with a forearm across his chest as the angel started to squirm beneath him, raked his teeth down the length of Aziraphale's sternum, flickered a tongue into the angel's navel. Grinned to himself as Aziraphale's hips left the sofa. Undid the trousers with one hand, abandoned Aziraphale's chest in favour of pulling them down, with Aziraphale's uncontrolled movements being more hindrance than help –

- hissed in (affectionate) exasperation.

"Wha-?"  
"Aziraphale...?"  
"What's the matter?"  
"Make an _effort_, will you?"

The end.


End file.
